A Dead Man's Legacy
by dysprositos
Summary: Now that Loki was 'dead,' all that he was...was a memory. And how lovingly he was remembered. With such reverence and grief that the city celebrated and drunks toasted his death.


**Thanks to my awesome beta, bequirk, for finding time to beta my Loki feels.**

**Certain details of this may be off; I haven't seen Thor 2 in months. That said, there's spoilers for Thor 2, if you haven't seen it.**

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He had hoped, at the very least, that they would refrain from celebration.

As had happened so often in the past, his hopes were dashed upon the sharp, unforgiving rocks of reality.

Loki sighed, walking past yet another group of revelers who were too drunk to notice the 'palace guard' slipping past them. It was late; dawn would be upon them soon, and 'Odin' had retired for the night hours ago. Loki had not felt ready to sleep, though, or rather, had been unable to. Instead, he'd donned the unremarkable face of one of Odin's guards and ventured out of the palace and into the streets.

The news of Loki's death had traveled quickly, once word had gotten out. Quickly, and enthusiastically. It was not a surprise that it was so; Loki had not been popular prior to his...indiscretions against Jotunheim and on Midgard. Afterwards, he had been loathed. That the people would rejoice in his demise was not particularly shocking.

Loki had just wished they wouldn't outright celebrate.

In their hearts, of course, they were free to do as they pleased, to feel whatever joy and pleasure they thought his death merited. And Loki had expected smug smirks from the masses he had wronged, perhaps even satisfaction. He'd expected muttered conversations in taverns, whispers in the streets, perhaps.

Outright celebration had just seemed so... crass.

Of course, Loki figured, he should have known that his expectations of others were too high. They always had been.

And so, though the denizens of the palace itself refrained from participating in the joviality out of respect for their mourning king (certainly not out of respect for the now-dead creature he'd once called 'son'), the feasting in the city had been going on for days.

It was...irksome.

There was not much that Loki could do to quell the happy mood, though. He of course could have easily crushed the revelers without so much as a second glance, and been pleased with himself for doing so—it was quite rude to celebrate anyone's death, let alone his—but that might have been out of character for the Allfather, let alone for a palace guard or for any of the other identities that Loki assumed to slip through the city unnoticed.

And he couldn't draw attention to himself. Not just yet.

He thus refrained from mass slaughter, no matter how his fingers itched to cast the spell that would put those cretins in their places. No matter how hard he ground his teeth when he passed partygoers drunk and passed out in the gutters, no matter how much his head ached from the smell of bonfire smoke and ale.

Not everyone was celebrating his demise, though, and Loki did not know if that pleased or annoyed him. Both, perhaps, or neither. Perhaps he felt nothing at all.

Thor, of course, was mourning him, to no one's surprise. And Thor's friends had at least passed by the feasts and merriment—a true test for Volstagg, who had never passed up a feast in his life.

In the entirety of the nine realms, then, Loki supposed he was mourned by one.

In the entirety of the nine realms, only a handful did not outright revile him.

What a legacy he had left.

He'd thought, briefly, that his mother would have mourned him, if only for who he had been before his fall from grace. But he'd destroyed her like he destroyed everything. It was just another thing they could write about him in the histories, another facet of his illustrious legacy.

It was all irrelevant, of course, or so Loki told himself. He had more important things to do than ponder the legacy of a man who was now dead, even if that man was him. With Odin now...indisposed...Loki had finally procured for himself the throne he had sought for so long. He had much to do and little time to do it—while he sat upon the throne now, he wasn't stupid enough to think that he could maintain the illusion forever. Loki had learned—the hard way, as Midgardians put it—that nearly all plans are doomed to fail, that he could only hope to do what he needed before he made his fatal mistake.

Or, more likely, before someone else made the mistake that destroyed him.

And yet, despite his proclaimed indifference, to the revelers, to his own grim entry in the history books, Loki could not help but sneer at those who so brazenly celebrated his death, could not help but glare at those who called him 'monster' amongst themselves.

It was one thing, the things he thought at himself when he looked into the mirror. But hearing the words come from their mouths, watching them _celebrate_ his demise, as if his entire existence had been an ordeal, a dark era in the history of Asgard that had now passed...Loki could not bear it.

Loki ducked his head, weaving through the shadows, heading back to the palace, stormy thoughts swirling disjointedly through his mind. He didn't know why he did this, why he continued to make these journeys out into the world. He had never connected with the people of Asgard while he was alive; now that he was dead, he doubted that would change. And yet.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

And yet he persisted.

Because now that he was dead, all he had was his legacy. Now that he was dead, all that he was...was a memory.

He had always wanted to be remembered.

Loki snorted, passing another bonfire surrounded by drunken revelers raising their mugs in a toast.

How lovingly he was remembered. With such reverence and grief that the city celebrated and drunks toasted his death.

But. It was what it was, was it not? This was his legacy.

What a pity, Loki thought, that he must live to see it.

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**Thanks for reading; review if you'd like. Think of it as a Valentine's Day present...**


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